


How the Blossoms Grow / All the World to See / Crow On the Cradle

by irisbleufic



Category: The Village (2004)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-09
Updated: 2008-04-09
Packaged: 2017-11-10 12:52:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What has been hushed, silent as red petals laid in earth, and saved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How the Blossoms Grow / All the World to See / Crow On the Cradle

**Author's Note:**

> _For Randy, who set me on this road, and in memory of Minotaur, who loved these boys, too._

 

 

**How the Blossoms Grow**

_**August 1887  
Covington Woods ** _

 

They are playing Touch the Posts.

One day, Jamison says, they'll stand on the old stump after dark, but he reckons that twelve is not old enough for that. For now, the posts will do. They are tall and harmless in the sunshine, like naked trees with golden, fluttering arms. Sometimes, the other boys climb them. Lucius is faster than a squirrel.

"I'll race you to the flag!" yells Christop Crane.

Noah Percy is in the shade of the tree, too, laughing. He claps his hands, waiting for the show.

Lucius Hunt rubs his sunburned nose and frowns at the post.

"We'll scratch the new paint," he says quietly, and steps into the shade.

They are not supposed to be here. Mr. Walker gives them an hour each afternoon for play, and they usually stay in the schoolyard. But today, Jesse Lynch gave everybody his most secret smile, shading his green eyes from the sun, and ran. Ivy caught him first, with the rest of them tagging along behind. Afterward, Jamison suggested the posts.

Some of the children are afraid to cross. Ivy hangs back, uncertain, clutching her cane with both hands. Sometimes, she looks at Lucius as if she can see him. Noah looks at them both, always one and then the other, his dark eyes quick as darts.

"You're a coward," Christop says, idly picking a piece of bark off the tree.

Lucius picks a different piece and flicks it onto Christop's shirt.

"Stop that!"

"Good," Noah says, grinning from ear to ear, laughing so hard he is bent over. "That's really good," he adds, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. "Capital!"

"No," Christop sulks, crossing back into the sunshine. "That's _mean_."

"You should not have done that, Lucius," Ivy says, but she is trying not to laugh.

Lucius is looking at her, but he does not say anything. He sits down under the tree and studies the ground. The first leaves are beginning to fall, pale green and bright yellow. When the Bad Color arrives, they will not be allowed outside alone for weeks.

Noah is not paying attention to Ivy. He is still looking at Lucius, and he is smiling as he smiles when he thinks he has a secret, but his secrets are easy to find out, because he wears them on his face like a mask. Today, his secret is that Lucius is beautiful.

Bored, Jamison begins climbing the post, his mouth set with determination. Two of his friends follow, glancing impatiently after him, waiting to see where his fingertips touch. Jesse is standing beside another post, curiously picking at the bright splotch of paint. His hair curls when he is not looking, twisting like golden thread.

Suddenly, Noah tackles Lucius. The boys wrestle often, but this is different.

"Noah—" Lucius chokes "— _what_ —"

"I got you!" Noah crows with glee, pinning Lucius's arms. "I got you!"

Ivy takes a step toward them, cane outstretched. Her mouth is stern.

"Noah!"

"I _got_ —"

Lucius chokes like he is surprised when Noah gives him a messy kiss on the mouth. Ivy is yelling at both of them, telling them to stop this instant, and Jesse is watching now, his eyes like spring grass following every movement. He follows to where Finton is watching from behind the tree—watching _all_ of them.

Finton closes his eyes tightly, hoping that his secret is not as easy to see as Noah's.

 

**_April 1889  
The Pond_ **

Lucius woke Finton up early by tossing pebbles at his window. Finton had to jump out of bed and wave his arms wildly to get Lucius to stop. Last time, Finton's mother noticed the scratches. She made him scrub them with an old rag dipped in hot water and soapflowers. His arm ached for a week, and he refused to talk to Lucius, which was all right. He had Jesse to talk to instead, at school and on long walks through the pasture.

Finton pokes his hook through a wriggling nightcrawler, then drops it quickly to dangle.

"They cannot feel it," Jesse reassures him, adjusting a smaller worm on his own. "Father says so. They don't have brains like we do."

"But they have skin," Finton says, and casts his line to the gently flowing water. "We feel it mostly in our skin, don't we?"

"Yes," Lucius says. "Don't think about it."

"I wish I could not," Finton sighs. He watches his nightcrawler sink. What worms do not seem to have is blood, and a good thing, too.

Jesse gives his line a couple of jerks and sits down on the mossy bank. They never ask Christop to come because he complains about the wet spots on his trousers. Finton thinks that he is silly, but Lucius thinks that he is ridiculous. None of them need to say it.

"Come on," Jesse says, patting the ground. "What are you waiting for?"

"A bite," Finton answers, but what he is really waiting for is the moment when Jesse will turn his head just _so_ , and his profile will be reflected off the silvery water.

"Bad day," Lucius mutters under his breath, dragging in his empty line.

"How do you know?" Jesse asks, indignant. "We've only been here two hours."

"He just does," Finton says, because it is true that Lucius has a way of simply knowing things. He sits down beside Jesse anyway, giving his line a sharp tug as precaution.

"I am going to catch the biggest trout in this pond," Jesse says, determined. When he is like this, the shine in his eyes softens to dreaming. His secrets are hard to find.

"They say," Finton says cautiously, staring across to the other side, where some girls are wading, "that Those We Don't Speak Of sometimes come and dip in their long claws—"

"Hush," Lucius says, and casts his line again.

"—and take the biggest ones away," Finton finishes, because Jesse is listening to him.

"There must be _some_ left," Jesse says. "The giant. The smartest one there is."

"His eyes are like tea saucers, I bet," Finton adds, grinning, tucking his hair behind his ears. His mother will say that it is getting too long, but he likes it this way.

"There's only one I know of," Lucius says behind him, and Finton is sprawled face-first in the shallow water before he realizes what is happening.

"That's not _fair_!" he sputters, struggling to sit up, fingers clawing at weedy muck.

Lucius just looks at him, mouth quirked, which means this is revenge.

"But it's very funny," Jesse says, grinning, and sets aside his pole. He crawls forward, hand outstretched. "Here," he says, his other hand buried in squelchy moss, knees soaked.

Finton takes Jesse's hand with slippery fingers and thinks he may not talk to Lucius for another week.

 

**_December 1892  
Resting Rock_ **

Finton would have gone ice-skating with Lucius and Ivy, but Noah is with them, wearing his two favorite secrets. Noah and Ivy chatter a lot, and Finton does not know what to say to them. Lucius is painfully silent around them, not at all like when he is alone with Finton in the guard tower. Jesse is uncomfortable with Noah's laughter, as if he fears it is for him.

The way to Resting Rock is blanketed in crisp, white snow, and Jesse's feet are the first to mark it. Finton follows a few steps behind, trying to leave as few of his own tracks as possible. He hates to ruin new snow, and he wishes that he could bottle the steam of his breath. His favorite season is winter, when there is nothing but clean, safe white.

There are no drills at this time of year, and for the first time, Finton regrets it.

Finton has been searching for ways of being alone, but the village is small and open, and passing unseen is difficult. He has watched the married Elders walking the fields at sunset—some of them hand in hand, some of them arm in arm. Once, he saw Mr. Percy kiss his wife in the greenhouse. In Finton's opinion, kisses are elusive things, sometimes wanted and sometimes not. He has seen both, and he fears that the secret to either is secrecy itself.

"Ho!" Jesse calls over his shoulder, nose pink and eyes dazzling. "Are you coming?"

"Give me a moment," Finton pants, struggling through a knee-high drift. "I have lost your trail!"

"You could make your own, you know. It isn't that hard. Powder if it's an inch."

"My legs are already frozen through," Finton says, struggling up beside him, knowing that he probably sounds miserable. What he does _not_ like is the cold.

Jesse reaches the Rock first. Finton watches him scoop away snow until there is enough space for both of them to sit. Jesse is slimmer than he is, younger by a year, but it will still be cramped. They sit down without a word, trousers and coat sleeves brushing.

"I long for warm weather," Jesse says unexpectedly. "Look," he adds, pointing down the hill and into the distance, "you can see the pond. I think that everyone is out today."

"Even your parents?" Finton asks. Jesse's hand is close, and his own hand is twitching on his knee. He has seen the holding of hands in less private places, and realizes how alone they are. He cannot remember the last time they even came close.

"No," Jesse says, meeting Finton's eyes with an easy smile. "Mama's caught a cold."

"I am sorry to hear it," Finton says, honest. He wonders if Jesse helps his father cook for her. He imagines that the steam of Jesse's breath is rolling off a fresh pot of stew.

"She will be well in a day," Jesse says, laughing. "It happens every year after the first storm. Father calls it her Snow Sickness. She would die without it, he says."

"You ought to have worn gloves," Finton blurts, too late to take it back.

Ever grinning, Jesse shrugs.

"It's cold all right," he says, "but I will survive. You worry more than you ought, Finton."

"I cannot help it," he says, and looks away. The passing years have not hidden his secret. They have only made it worse. It is his Snow Sickness, he wants to say.

When Jesse takes his hand, he thinks he might die all the same.

 

**_June 1894  
The Greenhouse_ **

Finton is potting marigolds when the Drill Bell begins to toll.

It is not real, he knows, for he has been through drills a hundred times since childhood, but the first sound of the ringing still strikes fear into his heart. He drops the plant and clumsily peels out of his gardening gloves, quickly heading for the door.

In his haste, he almost bumps into Mrs. Hunt. Finton mumbles an apology and stumbles toward the nearest house. Her sharp eyes are just like her son's. For a moment, Finton wonders if Lucius is in the smithy. If he is, they will not be in the same shelter.

The doctor's house is cool even in summer, smelling of herbs and alcohol. The floorboards are rough, and he remembers the way they felt under his soles on the day his mother sent him with some eggs to trade for dried willow bark. Her face had been pale and pinched.

"Quickly," Victor says, setting a hand on his shoulder, drawing him inside. He lets everyone call him by his first name, and his calm voice is easy to trust.

"Mind your step, dear," adds his wife as she lifts the trapdoor.

Under the floor is cool and shadowy, and there are crates scattered for sitting on. This space is larger than the one under Finton's house, and he imagines that his mother and father are huddled there alone. Victor takes his wife's place at the trapdoor, and she follows Finton down. He finds a seat in one dusty corner, peering anxiously up. There is another set of footsteps, maybe even two. Christop appears, as twitchy as ever, and Kitty Walker is behind him.

"Wait," calls a familiar voice from outside. "Is there room?"

"Always," Victor says, gesturing as Christop and Kitty stumble down the stairs. "Quickly, young man. Quickly!"

Jesse dashes through the door, out of breath. He is not afraid.

"Hello," he says, taking the stairs in one leap. Victor's wife gives him a disapproving look as he pulls a crate up beside Finton. "Those sheep," he says seriously, brushing off his hands as Victor closes the trapdoor over them, "are horrible. They've chewed my elbow clean through, can you believe it?" He fumbles for Finton's hand in the dark, guiding it to the ragged hole in his coat sleeve. "See?"

 _No_ , Finton almost says, because he cannot, and the skin of Jesse's arm is warm under his fingertips. He wonders if this is what the world is like for Ivy, and hears her sister taking shallow gasps in the darkness.

He takes his hand away, but Jesse catches his fingers, holding them fast. They have done this for two winters, and now for two summers. Finton is no longer so fond of gloves.

Jesse twines their fingers and sets his free hand against Finton's cheek, leaning so close that Finton can smell his breath. He has been chewing mint leaves again.

When their mouths touch, it is the briefest brush of lips. Careful not to make a sound, they rest like this for long moments, listening to the bell's distant clamor. Finton thinks that his heart might escape his chest if something does not happen soon.

Jesse leans in just a bit, and his fingers slip noiselessly into Finton's hair.

Over the hammering of his heart, Finton tells himself that if this never happens again, he will remember that Jesse tasted like mint, and that he is even more beautiful when his fair, smiling face is hidden from sight.

 

**_August 1896  
Covington Woods_ **

They are painting the posts.

The yellow cloak is made of heavy wool, and it itches Finton's cheeks and neck. It is too hot to be wearing them, but to go without is too great a risk. He dips his paintbrush into the bucket and adds a second coat of yellow paint to the dried swath he painted a few minutes ago. There is no breeze, and the woods are too quiet.

Someone is watching him, but he knows whose eyes they are.

"I've finished," Jesse says, stepping up beside him. He walks more quietly than Lucius.

"This is my last," Finton replies, carefully adding a third coat. "What about the others?"

"They have gone, except for Lucius."

"He is too curious for his own good," Finton says, dropping his paintbrush in the bucket. He turns around to face Jesse, and Lucius is visible on the far side of the clearing, his yellow cloak fading into the shade at the edge of the woods. He always turns back.

"He will be all right," Jesse says, green eyes restless. There is an impatience about him today that Finton does not recognize – except in _himself_. Finton's stomach turns in a tight, thrilled knot. He knows that he is seeing Jesse's deepest secret.

"We should go," he says carefully. He fills each word with meaning.

"Yes," Jesse agrees, and his eyes grow suddenly bright.

"There – " Finton falters, walking faster " – there is no one at home today. My parents have gone to help repair the bridge."

"I believe that my father has done so as well," Jesse says calmly, but his breathing is fast. "And my mother is helping Mrs. Hunt decorate the Hall for harvest."

The Lynch house is closest. It is plain wood with dark brown shutters and sky-blue curtains that flutter when the wind blows. There is only one door, but they do not lock it behind them. Finton knows that this is not a drill or an emergency, and his spine tingles.

The rumor is that Kitty Walker has gotten in trouble for walking alone with Jamison.

He wonders if he will get in trouble for this.

"This way," Jesse says, even though Finton knows where his room is. Up the ladder, into the loft. He has been up here to play checkers and to tell ghost stories. There is a window overlooking the grassy slope of the meadow. Finton does not look outside.

Jesse gives the ladder a push. It falls to the floor with a clatter.

"If anyone asks," he says, wiping his hands on his trousers, "we got trapped. It is the truth."

"Yes," Finton replies, and he cannot help smiling. "Someone will have to rescue us, and their story will make it even _more_ true."

With a giddy grin, Jesse kisses him. It is slow and soft, teasing, but Finton knows that there is more. He pulls Jesse up against him, gently parting his lips. Jesse does not make a sound, but he threads his fingers in Finton's hair. He is the only person who does that. The kisses turn deep and slow, and when they part to breathe, Jesse whispers his name.

After a while, standing grows uncomfortable. They have done this sitting down, under cover of darkness at Resting Rock, but never for long, and in the greenhouse, and in the guard tower. Their shifts are meant to be solitary, but sometimes Lucius or Jesse sits with Finton, and sometimes Finton sits with Jesse. Lucius takes _his_ shifts alone.

Finton tightens his hold on Jesse's waist. _Please_ , he thinks, unable to find words, drawing his breath in a sigh across Jesse's cheek. _Please, we are up here alone_.

"Come on," Jesse whispers, taking hold of Finton's hands. He takes a few steps back, drawing Finton with him. He is going to run into the bed, but that is his idea, his secret.

Finton crawls onto the mattress beside him and thinks that he is ready to share his own.

"I—" he stammers, combing his fingers through Jesse's short, wavy hair and onto the soft pillowcase "—I think you are—"

"I think you need to be quiet now," Jesse says, reaching up, and shows him why.

Finton has been aching for a long time, but never so badly as now. They kiss some more, but the secret is telling itself in touches. Jesse has pale, strong hands, and they are cold and slightly rough against Finton's sides and stomach. He is untucking Finton's shirt.

" _Stop_ ," he whispers against Jesse's ear, not because he wants him to stop, but because this secret is terrible and wonderful, too much like a dream to be true.

"Why?" Jesse asks. He has never sounded so hurt, but his hands withdraw.

Finton catches his wrists, torn.

"That is not what I meant," he says quickly. "That is, I w—I would like—"

While Jesse blinks at him, confused, he does what he wants to do, which is to do the same thing that Jesse has just done to him, and to discover that Jesse is as pale under his clothing as anywhere else, and that he is slim and warm when their bodies press together.

"Do you think," Finton says, his voice shaking as badly as his hands, which are untying Finton's underthings, "that this is what…in the high meadow…"

"Yes," Finton gasps, eyes closed tightly, swallowing as the cool air touches his shame. "I am sure this…is exactly what they do."

"Then it is romantic," Jesse murmurs, nuzzling his cheek, and touches him.

Finton knows that he must keep silent, so he lets his heart burst to blooming instead.

 

**_October 1897  
The Village_ **

There is restlessness everywhere.

Finton draws the yellow cloak tightly about himself, shuddering into the corner for warmth. Lucius is not with him tonight. Jesse is at home, because he promised his mother that he would not go wandering at dusk with things such as they are. The skinned animals have frightened everyone—even the Elders, who are _never_ shaken.

Only Noah laughs, clapping his delight for all to hear.

Now, and only now, does Finton envy him.

A sudden noise from below catches his attention. It is probably someone passing in the night, in a hurry to get home, but the sound comes again, startling him. His legs protest as he pushes himself forward, crawling for the trapdoor. He opens it and peers into the dark.

He is about to let it fall when the Bad Color passes below him.

Finton does not have time to think about the bump that the trapdoor has left on his head, or to hope that there is no one who is not safely home for the night. He must ring the Warning Bell, and so he does. The sound will turn restlessness into chaos.

As long as Finton has been alive, this has never happened.

He lets go of the rope and latches the trapdoor, then retreats to his corner, trembling. He cannot leave the guard tower. It is the way of things, and the Elders have always reassured the children that Those They Don't Speak Of cannot climb.

Finton is not so sure about that. A thing with claws may find purchase where it wishes.

Below him, the wooden ladder groans.

Finton closes his eyes tightly and tries to think of a prayer, but what comes to his lips is a string of pleas: _save me, save us, save me, save us_. There is a thud at the trapdoor, and another, and another. Helpless to do anything else, Finton shouts.

"Get away from here! _Get away_!"

"It is only me!" someone roars, voice so twisted by fear that it is unrecognizable, but it is _human_.

Finton scuttles to the trapdoor, fumbling with the latch, taking deep breaths. This is someone he knows, someone who has gotten trapped outside and has nowhere to go. This is –

"You are such an idiot," Jesse says, angry, but his eyes desperately ask, _Are you all right?_ He is not wearing a yellow cloak. He is not even wearing his hat.

"What are you doing here?" Finton demands, latching the door again. "You could have been killed!"

"What do you _think_ I'm doing here?"

Finton is immediately sorry for asking, because Jesse is holding him now. He hopes that wrapping the cloak around both of them is apology enough. He hopes that the creatures will sense their secret and pass them by.

He hopes that Lucius is right.

 

 

  
**~ * ~**

 

 

In defiance of the marks on every door, the wedding commences.

Kitty makes a lovely bride, but Christop is an unlikely groom. None of them were shocked to hear of Lucius's refusal. During the service, Finton sits between his father and Mr. Walker, who is quieter than his wife, but clearly overwhelmed. He sees Jesse a few rows ahead, seated with his parents. Jesse looks back once, half smiling. Lucius's look from across the room is stony. Ivy sits with her hands folded, beaming for all to see.

At the banquet following, the mood is much lighter. Noah is finally let to caper and laugh, and Finton slips away when his father leaves to take his mother, who is sick with slight fever, home. He slips onto the bench beside Jesse without announcing his arrival.

"Shock me to my grave!" Jesse says, laughing. He grasps Finton's hand under the white tablecloth, then hisses softly for quiet. Mr. Walker is about to announce a toast.

Finton raises his glass to the bride, then turns and raises it to Jesse. He is not sure what he is proposing, but he hopes that he is wearing his secrets well today. He has more of them than he has ever had, and many of them are Jesse's, too.

Eyes alight, Jesse touches his glass to Finton's and drinks deeply.

Afterward, there is lounging about on the grass, and dancing. Finton sits with his father for a while and entertains the little neighbor boy who likes to come begging his mother for her candied violets. Ivy and Mrs. Clack are sitting together, heads bent close in conversation. They paint a somber picture against the backdrop of gaiety.

"Son, you should dance," Finton's father says at length, and gets up. "I am going to tend to your mother. Mind that you are on guard tonight."

"Yes, Father," Finton says, and watches him leave with the blanket aflutter on his arm.

It is crowded, but the Hall is fine when cleared for dancing. The wives and young women have put up flowers and paper chains, and there is music from the village's only piano. Mrs. Masterson gives lessons to the younger children, because she is afraid that no one will play when she is gone. Amongst those of Finton's age, only Kitty has learned to play, but as the bride, her duties are greeting and dancing. Christop is not letting anybody touch him.

Finton finds an empty seat along the wall and continues to watch. The laughter is heady, dizzying. He sees Mr. Walker speaking with Mrs. Hunt, whose heart is in her hand.

"I do feel sorry for her," Jesse says quietly, out of nowhere.

"We'll see who digs whose grave," Finton says, and reaches for his hand. Let it be taken for greeting. He will do what Edward Walker cannot.

Surprised, Jesse squeezes Finton's fingers and doesn't let go for at least half a minute.

"I heard you are in the tower tonight," Jesse says, taking the seat beside Finton when it opens. "Will Lucius be with you?"

"No," Finton says. "Has your mother forgotten her anger?"

"No," Jesse says, his jaw tight, "but I have told her that I will be with you tonight."

His tone of voice sends a shiver down Finton's spine.

"I will see you there," Finton whispers, touching the back of his hand. "Dusk is falling. Bring blankets. It – " he adds hastily, glancing around the room " – has been very cold."

"It has," Jesse says, and sends him off with a promise.

On his way to fetch the cloaks, Finton spots one of the animals. It is dangling from a doorway, grotesque in the torchlight. He hears the nervous whicker of a horse from the direction of the barn. Throwing on a cloak, he drapes the other over his arm and flees the storage shed. He does not look from side to side. There is more death, more blood.

Somewhere, a child screams.

He runs to the tower, gasping for breath when he reaches the ladder. The trapdoor is open above him, and Jesse's anxious face is waiting.

"There is something out there," Jesse breathes, bundling into the second cloak.

Finton latches the trapdoor with unsteady hands, nodding.

"It has raided the barn," Jesse continues, face ashen. "I saw the door swinging."

Finton rises, fighting a swell of anger. There is no fairness in any of it. They have never harmed the creatures, this he knows. And the Elders say that the creatures have never harmed them, except for once. Lucius told him the story one evening, his quiet voice full of contempt. They have performed no act of aggression like Mr. Nicholson and his brother once did, yet night after night come attacks.

Jesse is already beside him, one hand on Finton's shoulder.

"The Elders will stop this," he says reassuringly. "They will find it, and they will kill it. I think it is no coyote, but one of the creatures that has madness."

"It is all madness," Finton whispers, turning to him. "I wish that it were over."

"Soon," Jesse says. His eyes are as green as summer by torchlight, and Finton believes him.

Jesse has brought a few old blankets, which they spread on the rough floorboards. Finton knows that there is nothing that they can do except wait until morning. They did not even need to ring the Warning. The children have done it for them. For a while, they sit side by side, curled together for warmth. Finton is half asleep when Jesse kisses him.

The wind is wild, and there is groaning and growling in the trees like Finton has never heard before. Jesse strokes his cheek, careful and slow, and says everything will be fine. They have kissed here before, but never _this_. The chill seeps into everything; the blankets are not enough. Lying on one and wrapped in the other, they undo only what clothing they must. Jesse is fierce, almost protective, as he clasps Finton to him, whispering that he loves him, until death –

Finton cannot breathe, cannot breathe, but what fills him is light, purest _life_.

 

 

 

**~ * ~**

 

 

Christop comes with the news the next afternoon. His face is as white as his wrinkled shirt, and his voice trembles as he says that Lucius Hunt may die of blood loss before morning. He says that Kitty is wild with grief and that her sister is to go to the Towns.

"They have asked for an escort," Christop says hollowly. "I am going."

Finton drops the bucket that he is carrying. Anger spills from him like water onto the grass.

"If no one else will come with you – "

"We are only to go so far," Christop explains, his voice colored with faint hope.

Numb, Finton packs quickly. He must not tell Jesse that he is going, or he will lose his nerve.

Ivy is waiting for them at Resting Rock. Against her pale cheek, the yellow cloak cuts a cruel, sorrowful line. She rises to meet them, her eyes as vacant as they have never been. Without a word, she strides between them, something clutched firmly in one hand.

Not even Ivy's promise of magic in those small, pathetic stones is sufficient to cast off the pall of Covington Woods. The air is damp and frozen, thick with mist, and each trail resembles the next. Spidery branches reach for them, taunt them, catching hair and snagging clothing. Before long, Finton can no longer hear Christop behind him.

Ivy watches her brother-in-law leave them with an expression of despair.

Finton feels a part of himself flee in terror, but his body, stiff and weary, continues.

That evening, an ice storm arrives with the descending dusk. It stings their skin and their eyes, merciless, as the two of them struggle to tie up the burlap for shelter. Exhausted and improperly shielded, they collapse underneath and sit in silence. Finton can no longer hold back tears, and he can hear Ivy sobbing to herself.

Lucius may be dead.

Before morning, _they_ may be dead.

Finton curls in on himself, closing his eyes. He cannot take it. This is not what Jesse meant the night before; this is not the kind of death and parting he intended. Christop is a coward, and Finton knows that he is also. If he had no one to live for, perhaps he would care less. Perhaps he might possess Ivy's single-minded determination if it were Jesse who lay dying.

The thought turns his stomach to rot.

When the storm lifts, they crack their frozen limbs and rise. The burlap is difficult to dismantle, for the storm has iced the ropes to the trees. Once it is folded safely in Ivy's pack, Finton steels his nerves and takes a breath. He must tell her. He cannot do this.

"It is _my_ burden, Finton," she says, her breath chattering free of her teeth. " _Go_."

He turns and does not look back. She is not coming with him. If he thinks another moment, guilt will overcome him, and he will stay, a terror and a hindrance to them both.

 

**_November 1897  
Covington Woods_ **

Jesse can see his breath in the falling darkness.

It is the first day of the new month, and winter has come early. His mother could not persuade him inside during the storm, and his father called him a reckless fool before shutting the door. He went for a cloak and headed for the trees, never once glancing back.

The Elders say that it is only half a day's journey to the gravel road, and beyond, he imagines that the Towns are close. If Jesse waits, he may be able to greet them shortly after dawn.

His hope is a fool's hope, and he knows it. Noah has escaped.

Still, Jesse is determined that nothing will shake him from the spot. He folds his arms beneath the cloak and settles with his back against one of the posts, eyes open wide. There is so much mist that he cannot see more than four feet in front of him. The red berries sway in the wind, taunting him with death.

This was not what he had meant the night before.

Jesse is tired of heartache. In every corner of this place that he calls home, it cowers, more terrifying than any thing with teeth and claws, more threatening than a lovesick boy with a knife. He understands what they are up against. They have feared themselves all along. Jesse hopes that Lucius will survive. He is stronger than any of them, but not as strong as Ivy. It is strange to think that she will protect Finton, but he knows that this is true, and holds to it like a beacon. There is little else that he can do.

After a time, he drifts off, exhausted and cold. To die here would be a mercy, he thinks dimly, if Finton and Ivy do not return. Perhaps Noah will find him first, or perhaps –

Through the mist, someone is coming.

Jesse struggles to his feet, throwing back his hood. If this is death, then he will meet it unafraid, with eyes open and arms flung wide. Droplets of melting ice spatter his cheeks like tears, but what fills him is purest laughter. He is ready, and it is coming.

When the figure breaks into the berry thicket, it stops, panting. It is dressed in bright yellow, and its hood is thrown back to reveal long, tangled blond hair.

Jesse runs to him, unthinking, and the cold on his cheeks turns to fire.

"Finton! Finton, is that – "

"Do not cross!" Finton shouts, running again. "For the love of heaven, do _not_ —"

Jesse catches him head-on, and they fall in a tangle of soaked wool and berry stains.

"You idiot," Finton chokes, "I _told_ you—"

"You told me nothing," Jesse sobs, and his tears fall on Finton's scratched, dirty cheeks. " _Nothing_!"

"I did not want you to go," Finton whispers, reaching for his hand, struggling to sit up. "I could not—"

"Neither could Christop," Jesse cuts in. He cannot help his anger.

"Ivy will be all right," Finton says. He sounds as if he has had to convince himself of this every step of the way back.

Jesse helps him to his feet, and they stand for what feels like forever, there in the midst of danger.

"I hope that is so," he says finally. Finton's hair is plastered to his cheeks, so he smoothes it back, wiping away the streaks—here tears, there dirt, there blood.

"When she returns," Finton says, beginning to sound like himself, "we will be here, and your story will make it true."

"We must get you warm first," Jesse says, taking his hand. "But after that, if you wish…"

"We will wait," Finton says calmly.

There in the berries and blood, dazzling red, Jesse kisses him, and makes it true.

 

 

 

**All the World to See**

 

 

**  
_December 2004/December 1897  
_** _**Walker Wildlife Preserve/Covington Village**_

The pocket watch swings and swings as Kevin drives, a hypnotic golden compass.

Invariably, it leads him back to the mile-marker where he picked up the girl – _Ivy_ , her name a fading, clinging thing in the rush of oncoming winter. He stops the land rover and studies the high barrier, wondering how she made the climb in those old-fashioned shoes and skirt. _Blind_. Still staring, he shakes his head, and his eyes dart back to the pocket watch.

Kevin isn't superstitious, but it was on All Saints' Day that she'd come and gone, fading fast as a deer and lithe as a ghost beyond the barrier, down the road that wasn't a road. He'd wondered as he stood shaking atop the ladder, letting go of her hand, if it was another ghost she'd run home to, or if the penicillin would save someone's life.

He restarts the land rover, thinking of his late mother's Christmas cookies instead. His father, living halfway across the country now, had never learned to make them. Neither had Kevin.

The pocket watch swings, and swings, and swings.

 

 

 

**~ * ~**

 

 

The Elders' Yuletide Council is interrupted, as usual, by one of the young adults.

Ivy tilts her head, listening carefully to the footsteps as they cross the wooden slats. There is a slight, swaggering confidence in them that could belong to any of several of the unmarried men about her husband's age, but it's difficult to tell. Her sister's husband, Christop, has something of that bounce in his step, but gravity has tugged it to earth a little ever since Kitty's miscarriage. Lucius had been nearly recovered then, and it had been difficult to leave his bedside for her sister's.

"Jesse," Lucius whispers, taking hold of her hand.

Ivy squeezes it, drawing in her breath. She can hear the mutters rise: Lucius's mother to her left, Victor and his wife farther down. The others merely clear their throats, waiting. Her father – and for this she is thankful – is patient in his silence.

"Good afternoon, young Mr. Lynch," he says, finally, in an agreeable tone. "I trust your mother is well since the ice storms have passed?"

Ivy hears the floorboards shift under Jesse's feet, then the soft brush of his hair against the brim of his hat as he removes it. She imagines his hands folded and his chin held high.

"Yes, Mr. Walker," Jesse responds, his voice clear and strong. "She sends her thanks to Victor, and my father sends his greetings to you."

"Tell him that they are returned," Ivy's father replies, rising. Ivy tightens her grip on Lucius's hand, counting the steps that he takes toward Jesse. _One, two, three_.

"And tell me," continues Mr. Walker, with gentle humor, "if there is some matter of grave import that brings you before our dire and _crucial_ vote as to the most suitable location for this year's tree?"

Ivy covers her mouth with her free hand, trying not to laugh. The thought of what Jesse is about to say is enough to stay the breath in her lungs to the point of pain.

"Not of grave import, no, but certainly _of_ import," Jesse responds, adopting Mr. Walker's mode of speech with a chameleon's ease. "I've come to ask permission _not_ to marry."

There is stunned silence before the murmurs erupt. It's Lucius's turn to squeeze Ivy's hand.

"I am not certain I follow," Mr. Walker says, slowly. It is one of the few occasions on which Ivy has seen her father speechless, his usually strong beacon of what she remembers from her childhood to be _green_ wavering briefly.

"I find the recent trend troubling, you see – no offense to my dear friends Mr. And Mrs. Hunt. It's just that, well, with this year's many declarations of marriage, it may be equally as important for those of us who intend _not_ to marry to make our intentions known, sir, that we may make productive plans in our own right."

"Foolishness," Lucius whispers. "But he's brave."

Ivy straightens her head and smiles, looking directly at Jesse. His voice has faltered slightly, and he needs reassurance from them more than he needs concern.

"Productive plans in your own right, _plural_?" asks Mrs. Hunt, her voice like twisted iron.

Ivy feels her father's glance sweep over her and pass to Lucius's mother, a mild warning.

Jesse clears his throat, then says, "Yes, Mrs. Hunt. For it so happens that Finton Coin does not intend to marry, either, and we have come to an agreement concerning the construction of a small house in which bachelors such as ourselves would not continue to encumber our parents with extra mouths to feed. That is, if the Council will sees fit to grant us land." Jesse pauses, and Ivy hears skin brush on skin: the back of his hand across his sweat-damp forehead. "We ask less space than the Percy household occupies, even," he adds, and his sudden intake of breath means that he did not mean it to come out sounding like that. "Th – that is, a _small house_ , Mr. Walker, on a small piece of ground. Nothing more."

Ivy realizes she has lowered her head again, and she forces it upright. Lucius's breathing beside her has changed as it changes when he feels cornered or embarrassed. Ivy strokes the back of his hand to calm him, fearful of damage to his recently healed wounds.

Muttering surrounds them, then silence as her father's color flares – the raising of his hand.

"You are—certain, Mr. Lynch, that you have no intention to marry? Young though our remaining daughters may be, I assure you that they will be perfectly eligible in time. I do not speak merely on my own behalf," he adds, his reassuring amusement ever present.

"I _am_ certain, Mr. Walker," Jesse says, his voice firm. "And Finton is certain, too, if I may speak for him. He has not the constitution to come before you, so I represent us both. We are the most harmonious of companions, and we vow that this arrangement shall be for the benefit of us all, including your daughters." Ivy can't help but grin as Jesse looks about the room, for certainly the shift in his address suggests the offering of banter. "They will at least know to choose otherwise, and heaven knows all our ears will be the better for it."

Ivy is glad that Kitty isn't present to hear the sudden, startling laughter – especially Lucius's. Or her own, for that matter. She covers her mouth with her hand again.

"Brave, brave fool," Lucius is saying under his breath as Mr. Walker confers with the others around them, leaving Jesse to stand and wait for the moment. There's a smile in his voice as he adds, "I cannot believe he did it."

"I can," Ivy says, and looks back at Jesse. His smile radiates the faint color of spring violets, a new and vibrant thing in her recently lifting darkness. Against Lucius's pale gold – like the remembered flash of her mother's wedding band – it is a spring flower, and she wonders if Finton's color will soon paint a swath of her world, too.

 

**_December 1897/January 1898  
Covington Meadow  & Resting Rock_ **

This year, it is Jesse who struggles to keep up with the trail that Finton blazes.

"I do not know what miracle you worked," Finton pants, practically running, heedless of the snow he scatters this way and that, "but you have done it!"

Jesse manages to catch up with him, catching hold of his scarf. Both of them go down in a shower of fine powder, cheeks pressed to the crush of frozen whiteness, laughing. It is pitch dark, save for the gentle blaze of lights from the village behind them.

"To be honest, I think it was plain, garden-variety astonishment," Jesse admits, propping himself up on one elbow, brushing the snow away from Finton's cheek. In the dark stillness—no groaning from the woods for months now, he's noticed—Finton looks less troubled than he ever has, and decidedly more grown-up.

"You mean to say that Mr. Walker just talked to them for a few minutes, and he said yes, of course, just like that?"

"Well, there were a few conditions I hesitate to mention," Jesse says, deciding that a touch of Mr. Walker's playfulness would hardly be out of order. He must know if Finton's nerves have truly healed, as surely as Ivy had insisted upon Victor's express permission for Lucius to rise and resume walking about in the world.

Finton's brow furrows, and his hand tightens fretfully on Jesse's wrist.

Reluctantly, Jesse bites his lip, deepening the ruse as light snow begins to fall.

"What?" Finton asks, sitting upright, dragging Jesse with him. "Will you not say?"

Jesse sighs. "If I must. The conditions are as follows: one, because the land falls between the village proper and this very meadow, we are to consider it our responsibility to be vigilant—not eternally on watch, mind you—with regards to the Woods."

Finton's furrowed brow uncreased a little. "We have come to a permanent truce," he says, confident. "A life for a life; Noah's for one of theirs. It is sealed in blood."

"Yes, well, we are to be vigilant," Jesse presses on, finding it difficult to keep a straight face. "Two: we are not to harbor young charlatans out and about in the night for the purpose of playing outdoor parlor games. We are to be grown gentlemen with a household of our own, not a safe-haven for addle-headed children."

Finton practically sniffed, tucking his hair behind his ears. "We've not done that in _years_."

"No, of course not," Jesse pressed on, patting Finton's shoulder. "Third: Lucius and Christop are to be in charge of the house-raising party, which shall commence when the cold weather breaks come spring."

Finton blinks at the last, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "We're not to build it ourselves with no assistance from anyone, what with the…circumstances, if you like?"

"No," Jesse says, grinning now, indifferent to whether Finton catches him in the joke or not. "We're to have a house-raising just like Kitty and Ivy had. _Can_ you abide it?"

"I can abide most things, so long as you're near me," Finton says, tugging at Jesse's shoulders. "Come on, the midnight is almost on us. What will _you_ wish for?"

"I had not given it thought," Jesse lies, letting Finton tug him to his feet. Snow falls off them in fine, skittering sheets, adrift on the fresh, cold wind.

"You are an awful liar," Finton says with a shy sideways glance, as if they have not done everything under the sun and stars that the Elders have done when no one else is watching. "I will make my wish without kissing you, I swear it."

"You lie no better than I do," Jesse replies, cuffing him, then breaks into a run.

They are both out of breath when they reach Resting Rock, but the stars overhead say that the hour of the New Year has come, and kisses and wishes become one and the same.

 

**_April 1898  
New Homestead_ **

"There must be something better to call it," Lucius murmurs, hefting a bucket of whitewash over to Finton with both hands.

His strength seems to have returned, but Ivy is never far behind him, her pale eyes wary and focused. On days like this, he both loves her more than life and wishes she would let him be and get back _to_ living. It is bad enough she and Kitty have put wreathes of flowers in all the young folks' hair. Victor Clack, his wife, and Mr. Walker were the only elders present for the groundbreaking, and now that it is past dusk and they work by blazing torches and lanterns, only a small fellowship remains.

"There might be, but for now, it is what it is," Finton says, grinning at Lucius like he has never grinned in all the days that Lucius has known him – all of their days combined.

"Hoy, but you lay-abouts are the reason we've gone so late into the night," Jesse chides, catching Lucius on the backside with his glove as he passes by with a few planks of wood over one shoulder. "Finton, how are these for stairs?"

"They don't look like much," Finton says, hardly glancing away from his task.

" _You_ didn't look much," Jesse replies, turning his glove on Finton.

"Ivy, will you have a word with Christop?" Kitty cuts in, rushing to her sister, her long hair spilling loose from its tight, coiled plaits. "He is in a most _frightful_ state over his shirt. He went home and changed; I told him he ought not to if he'd rather not ruin them all. Oh, Ivy, _do_ quiet him!"

Lucius wishes, vaguely, that he were inside helping arrange the furniture, or at least making sure that no one knocks over a lantern. He edges away from Ivy and Kitty, half of a mind to go sort Christop with a good splash of whitewash and a few choice words.

"No, why should I even consider it?" Ivy asks, her voice pitched into the no-nonsense register that she had once reserved solely for Noah. "He'll only go on fussing once I've gone, and heaven knows you ought to learn to quiet him yourself, what with the minute fact of your recent wedding. I may have a way with children, but I do draw the line."

Instead of laughter, there is only awkward quiet. Somehow, Lucius is sure that those silences will never leave them, especially if Kitty never conceives and Ivy admits that she _has_. He peers inside the house, calling to Christop as loudly as he dares.

Ivy has told Lucius of her journey, sparing no detail, and he is troubled. It is easy to think, in moments of joy such as this, that it ought to have been his life instead of Noah's.

Impatient, Lucius pushes the thought away and calls again. He ought not to spoil a day that belongs to his dearest friends in the world, who are better for having each other.

Before Christop can answer, something in Lucius's hair gives way, and a rain of blossoms falls, whipcord and petal storm, across the newly finished threshold.

 

**_July 1898  
Covington Meadow_ **

Edward Walker remembers Independence Day, and the Elders have agreed with him as to its continued celebration, albeit somewhat altered. On the fourth day of July, the village turns out-of-doors at dusk in its finest and feasts to welcome the high summer harvest. Victor, wizard that he is, had devised a rudimentary sort of fireworks early in the experiment.

The children are laughing and clapping now, wide-eyed with amazement.

Beside him on the family blankets lies his wife, drowsy in the nighttime heat, and beyond her, Ivy and Lucius sit with their heads close together, whispering. Edward inclines his head, listening intently. What he hears is not to his liking, but he does not blame them.

"… _cannot_ bear it," Ivy is saying, shaking her head, her eyes filled with tears. "It is almost as bad as watching you die. It is watching part of _her_ die; it _haunts_ me so, Lucius," she whispers, her eyes imploring.

"Either she is barren, or Christop is barren," Lucius says, in low tones, turning his head quickly to take the edge off his words. "You have heard what Victor has told them. There is nothing to be done. No medicines exist that can make a child from nothing."

Ivy's hands rest on her swollen stomach, clenching faintly. Edward looks away, closing his eyes on the sting of his eldest daughter's grief in the face of Ivy's joy.

"Medicines existed that could save your life, and they said you could have passed at any time," she says through clenched teeth, tears running freely down her cheeks. "Surely – "

"You cannot make the journey again," Lucius says, quick and almost harsh. "Not like this. I forbid it, Ivy. _Our_ child needs your strength in order to live."

It is too late, Edward realizes, to pretend that he has not been listening. Ivy's horrified eyes are fixed on his, and Lucius is staring at the ground, ashamed.

"If it would not be inconvenient, I would like to have a word with both of you," Edward says, rising to his feet. His knees have begun to complain these few years past, and he knows that his wife's bones fare no better in this humid weather. He watches Lucius help Ivy to rise, one arm remaining protectively wrapped about her waist.

"Not here," Ivy says, urgently, and squeezes Lucius's hand. "At home."

As Lucius leads them up the torch-lined path, Edward wonders how and where to begin, and if they will even believe him. Still, the world will come whether he wills it or not.

 

**_October 1898/October 2005  
Covington Village/Walker Wildlife Preserve_ **

The Council is silent, unable to respond to Lucius's proposal.

If what Ivy has heard is correct, it would not be the first time, and it would surely not be the last. The hostility radiating from the ends of the crescent assembly inward is stifling, and she wishes Lucius would return and take his place beside her. Instead, Jesse has shifted over from his recently appointed seat in order to take her hand in Lucius's stead. Finton, too, had been offered a seat, but he had declined.

"I cannot believe it," he whispers, in awe. "I still cannot believe it."

"Do," Ivy whispers, clutching his fingers fearfully. "With all your heart."

"You say nothing," Lucius says, and there is such contempt in his voice as to wilt what is left of the harvest bouquets hung about the hall. Their faint odor lingers in the air, seeming to Ivy the very scent of the Elders' collective regret.

"We cannot," his mother says, stiffly. "As Mr. Walker has so kindly pointed out, the decision is no longer in our hands. One would think we had placed you all in jeopardy."

"No, not in jeopardy," Jesse says, quieting Ivy's gathering fury with a tightening of his grasp, "but in a lie. You have placed yourselves in a lie, too, and have paid dearly for it these twelve months past. Lives have been taken, even prevented from starting, when you wished them to be saved."

" _You_ know nothing, boy," someone growls under his breath, but it is lost under Mr. Walker's shout of " _Silence!_ All of you. Lucius seeks advice, not discord!"

"Discord is all you will find, Edward," implores Mrs. Hunt, distraught. "He's asking us to let him go where you _never_ should have let Ivy set foot. _Our_ lives here are dependent upon the safety of Covington; _have_ you gone mad?"

Ivy closed her eyes, but the tears came in spite of it. Jesse was rocking her now, gently, perhaps to calm her unborn child or even to calm himself. He was shaking.

"I am disappointed in you," said Mr. Walker, quietly, and pauses for a long moment. "All of you. All of you who came here at the start, not those of you who stand here at the last."

"I would speak to doctors in the Towns," Lucius repeats, dropping his prepared statement on the floorboards, where it lands with a faint rustle. "I would see if there is hope for Kitty that might be brought here, and if there is not, I would take her there myself at some later time. I am well now. Soon my child will be in the world, and I would not have that child be alone."

"There will be more children, Lucius," Ivy chokes out, but Jesse quiets her.

"He would have your sister's child keep her company as she grows."

"Her," Ivy mutters, wanting to laugh in spite of her tears. "Are you then a prophet, Jesse Lynch?"

"No, but I have hope," he whispers, and Lucius's continued debate with the Elders fades into the background. "I would see this world, or at least hear more of it. Is it true, what your father says of a sense of place and purpose for those like Finton and myself?"

"He says it is very dangerous," she admits, "but very brave."

"Brave and foolish," Jesse murmurs, and she feels the imperceptible turn of his head in Lucius's direction. Lucius is silent now. They are bathed in the softest of whispers.

Ivy thinks of Finton's color, bright poppy swaying in the breeze.

She waits, and waits, and waits.

 

 

 

**~ * ~**

 

 

Enough is enough is _enough_.

Kevin hits the breaks and drifts to a stop at the mile marker, his eyes fixed hard on the pocket watch. He's had two near misses with whitetail deer after dark, damned things that wander in from the outside or somehow slip through the barrier, and his boss isn't pleased about the damage he did to one of the signposts with the vehicle's right fender.

Determined, Kevin takes hold of the swinging thing and rips it down, taking the rearview mirror with it. He jams the breaks and yanks the keys from the ignition, letting them drop carelessly on the ground as he gets out of the land rover. He untangles the watch chain from the mirror and lets the mirror drop, too. The watch, he slips in his pocket.

 _Any_ world beyond that barrier is better than the fear and monotony of his.

Taking hold of the ivy, Kevin climbs, and climbs, and climbs.

 

 

 

**Crow On the Cradle**

**  
_March 1899/March 2006  
_** _**Covington Village/Outside Philadelphia**_

_The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn_  
 _Now is the time for a child to be born_  
 _You'll laugh at the moon, and you'll cry for the sun_  
 _And if it's a boy he'll carry a gun_  
 _Sang the crow on the cradle_

 

"The weather has cleared enough for us to undertake the journey," says Lucius, simply, glancing sidelong at Jesse. Finton, a few paces behind them, keeps the barrel of his flintlock low and tries to ignore the panic that rises in his chest at the very sound of the words. They have not seen any rabbits.

"It is about time," Jesse mutters, still chewing on the teaberry sprig Finton had found for him in the undergrowth. "The rest of the Council was just playing for time when they voted that we wait until spring."

 _Do not go_ , Finton wants to say, but he holds his tongue. Out of the corner of his eye, there's a low flash of movement in the grass: black gleam, hazel-brown, and white. He raises his rifle and shoots once. The rabbit stumbles and rolls with an anguished squeal. Lucius and Jesse freeze in their tracks, but they quickly look relieved.

"Perfect shot," Jesse says, dashing ahead to retrieve their quarry. " _Absolutely_ capital."

"One more like that," Lucius tells Finton, clapping a hand on his shoulder, "and we don't stand a chance."

Finton shrugs, finding himself unable to return Jesse's smile. "I am not feeling competitive today."

"A bottle of Victor's whiskey says he is bluffing," Jesse says to Lucius, slinging the rabbit over his shoulder and into the pannier on his back. "Or haven't you anything to wager with?"

Lucius gives Finton a long, serious look, frowning. "I am not in the mood for gambling. We need to gather provisions for the journey. It takes two days at least, and that is only going one way."

"If we keep a good pace, I think we can make it in one," Jesse replies confidently, taking hold of Finton's hand and squeezing it. "The sooner I return," he adds, kissing Finton's cheek, "the better."

Finton tugs his hand away and slings the rifle over his shoulder. Briefly, Jesse looks hurt, but he laughs it off and tugs Finton in by the waist instead. All around them, the meadow is shin-high with green grass and wildflowers. The sheep, no longer spooked by the gunshot, draw near again, hoping for food.

"Get off," Lucius mutters, shoving a ewe with the butt of his rifle. "We'll need new clothes."

"We just got some for Yuletide," Jesse reminds him, pinching Finton's side.

" _Different_ clothes," says Lucius, giving Finton a hard look that says, _You had best knock some seriousness into your man before it is too late_.

Before Jesse can reply, the sound of strained breath and skirts in the grass catches them from behind.

"Lucius!" pants Kitty, struggling to keep her scarf wrapped around her neck, "Lucius, come _quick_. It's Ivy!"

 

 

 

**~ * ~**

Kevin takes aim carefully, but not carefully enough. He isn't accustomed to the kick of the shotgun—it's from one of the Preserve's stockpiles rather than his father's attic—and the bullet goes awry, scaring the rabbit off into the waist-high weeds. He feels like swearing, but he's not comfortable enough with foul language to bother. He sighs and lowers the gun, standing still for a very long time.

The stillness of the pasture and the silence of the woods ahead both remind him that he's grieving. He'd flown to New Mexico last week to bury his father, meeting in the same fell swoop two young step-brothers that he'd only heard about via letters and email. His stepmother had invited him to stay longer, even move out there with them if he liked, but it didn't feel like home. He couldn't trust a place that had eighty-degree weather in early spring. It wasn't right somehow.

And it was a good thing that his supervisor had caught him climbing that damned barrier, as much as he'd wanted to reach the other side. If he'd run away all those months ago, he wouldn't have had one last holiday with Dad. Kevin's stepmother and the boys had gone to see her mother, with whom his father didn't really get along. It meant they'd been able to spend some time together at the old family camp.

Absently, Kevin touched his cheek. He hadn't cried in a long time. He hadn't even cried at the funeral.

As for his job, he wasn't sure where things stood. He'd been nailed for stealing the medical supplies, finally, and if somebody happened to rummage through just the right shack, they'd discover the missing shotgun, too. He fully intended to return it, but he'd still be in a world of trouble. He struggled to suppress a sob and failed. In the distance, a clutch of grazing heifers regarded him warily.

Kevin retraced his steps back to the road, careful not to step in any shit. He couldn't afford to stand around waiting for his own heart attack at fifty-five, that was for sure.

Besides, he needed— _desperately_ needed—to know if Ivy's loved one had survived.

 

_**April 1899/April 2006  
Covington Village/Walker Wildlife Preserve** _

_And if it should be that this baby's a girl_  
 _Never you mind if her hair doesn't curl_  
 _With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes_  
 _A shadow above her wherever she goes_  
 _Sang the crow on the cradle_

 

"Do you suppose I'm a prophet after all?" asks Jesse, carefully lifting the quiet, restless bundle from Ivy's arms. "Look at her, Fin. She definitely got her mother's eyes."

 _Let us hope they work_ , Finton thought, leaning in close to study the child's face. Nell had eyes of a paler, brighter blue than he had seen in most infants. He waved at her, then wiggled his fingers. Nell's wide, steady gaze followed his every move. She pursed her lips almost stubbornly

"She looks like Lucius," he finally said.

"She has her father's color," Ivy remarks, almost darkly. "Two weeks and she's already such a beacon as I have _never_ seen." She turns her head in Lucius's direction, smiling in her slow, secret way. "Is her hair changing color?"

"No," says Lucius, "but it looks like it might be starting to curl."

"You'll be a dead-ringer for your mam in no time, darling," Jesse reassures Nell, bouncing her.

Finton's stomach roils with discomfort. They have not come calling for pleasure, and all of them know it. He clears his throat loudly, then says, "I'll take her outside while you talk." When he reaches to take the baby, Jesse does not resist. Ivy nods, rising to come with him. Lucius can only look grateful.

For early April, the weather is perfect. Finton takes a seat beside Ivy on the front porch and balances Nell on his knees, loosening the blankets so her tiny arms can stretch free and feel the breeze. The first thing that she reaches for is Finton's hair, which is loose today, hanging a few inches from her face. She burbles pleasantly as it catches between her tiny fingers, her mouth opening in a silent, inquisitive _o_.

"You seem at ease with her, Finton," says Ivy, smiling in spite of her apprehension.

"Never you mind Daddy and Uncle Jes," Finton tells the baby, carefully untangling his hair. "You listen to the birds and watch the clouds, and I'll keep your Mama distracted from this madness."

Inside, he can hear Jesse and Lucius exchanging words like _disguise_ and _caution_.

 

 

 

**~ * ~**

Two weeks. Two _weeks_ it's taken him to work up the nerve, say his goodbyes without letting people know that's what he's actually saying, pack his father's old army rucksack, and walk the long haul to the mile-marker that he's come to know by heart. His supervisor looked at him strangely when he said he'd prefer not to use the land rover, but it seemed that citing the warm weather checked out as a valid excuse. The roadside is gravelly in spite of the overgrown grass, heavy with cinder and salt left over from the precautions against winter's last snow. He slings the shotgun strap determinedly across his chest, settling the weapon carefully against the rest of the load on his back.

The false vines are stronger than they look: enough to take his weight even so heavy-laden, and probably more. He struggles over the top of the barrier, clinging for dear life. He's heard awful things about people who take falls while carrying guns, but he tries to reassure himself that the cases you hear about are only the ones where the gun happens to be loaded. His isn't. On his way down the opposite side, his foot slips and he falls a couple of feet, but his hands are pretty secure. Shaking, he lowers himself to the ground.

Kevin is standing on a wide gravel path—not small enough to be a trail, not broad enough to be a road—that stretches forward for what looks like miles into verdant, welcoming green.

He steps forward, as if crossing an invisible line, and he does not look back.

 

_**April 1899/2006  
The Long Road** _

_The crow on the cradle_  
 _The black on the white_  
 _Somebody's baby is born for a fight_  
 _The crow on the cradle_  
 _The white on the black_  
 _Somebody's baby is not coming back_  
 _Sang the crow on the cradle_

"They could have told us they were beautiful," says Jamison, his eyes wide with amazement.

"Who could have told us what were beautiful?" asks Jesse, whittling as he walks.

"The woods," replies Lucius, pointedly, keeping alert as he leads the way. "Yes, they could have." Beauty is no guarantee that the road is safe, even though he has known the truth of the matter now for quite some time.

"I do _not_ like these trousers, though," Jamison mutters, falling a few steps behind. "They itch."

Lucius hears the sound of Jesse wiping his knife clean on his own denim-covered leg. "I think they are ingenious. Sturdiest thing I ever wore!"

Somewhere ahead of them, a stick snaps, the echo too forceful to have been caused by the delicate hoof of a deer. Lucius freezes, watching as a flurry of dark-clored birds, too far up in the leafy canopy to be clearly discerned, races above their heads. There is a softer rustling, then, followed by complete stillness.

"There is someone here," Lucius whispers between his teeth. He draws down the hammer of his rifle in complete silence, scanning the tree trunks and the road and the shadows in between. _There_. If what his father-in-law says is true, humans from the outside are not permitted on these grounds, and a trespasser may mean harm.

"What?" Jamison whimpers, unable to keep his voice down. " _Where_?"

"Ahead," Jesse breathes, and there is no sound of his knife any more. "Five hundred yards."

Lucius narrows his eyes. It's four hundred if it's an inch, but he doesn't raise his gun.

 

 

 

**~ * ~**

Even over the distance, Kevin hears the ominous _click_ and knows he isn't alone. His nearsightedness has been getting worse over the past six months, so he's unable to see what's ahead in any intricate detail. What he does know—this at least and most important of all—is that at least one person is there, hidden amongst the spring greenery with a bullet trained on him. Briefly, Kevin wonders if this was what it was like for his father in Vietnam.

Suddenly, there's movement: sun on pale hair, and he sees one figure, maybe two.

Fumbling to unsling the shotgun, he doesn't think twice. He may want to vanish, but he doesn't want to _die_. He wants to live to see Ivy again, maybe even protect her from this threat, whatever it is.

Kevin's shot rings out first, and his opponent's follows a split-second behind.

 

 

 

**~ * ~**

There is only one cry of anguish, but it is followed by that of a bird.

 

 

 

**~ * ~**

_Crows_ , Lucius thinks, dropping his rifle.

More shouts rise, including his own, and the world fades to familiar darkness.

 

**_May/The Present  
Covington Village_ **

_Bring me my gun, and I'll shoot that bird dead_  
 _That's what your mother and father once said_  
 _O crow on the cradle, what can we do?_  
 _This is the thing I must leave up to you_  
 _Sang the crow on the cradle_

 

Over a year has passed, and still, Finton thinks, life will never be quite the same.

First and foremost, life is different because he has chosen, belatedly, to take his rightful place on the Council. One too many brushes with danger have taught him that life is here and now, for the living and the fighting. Alongside Ivy and the rest of the Elders, he cast his vote—which had been unanimous, save for two dissenters—that any person wishing to venture into the woods must go and never return, lest they jeopardize the safety of all. Conversely, any person wishing to enter from the outside must remain, lest they carry rumors to the towns and the rest of the world beyond.

Life is also different because Nell is growing. She is rapidly learning to walk, and her vocabulary includes such words as _Ma_ , _Da_ , _Fin_ , and _Kitty_. No matter how hard Finton tries, he cannot get her to say _Jes_. She has the sharpest, bluest eyes that he has ever seen, and her fine, straight hair is the color of summer flax. She reminds Finton of her father more than anyone else.

"She's more talkative, though," Jesse remarks, bouncing Nell on his knee. Ivy and Lucius have gone to Resting Rock for a picnic, and Kitty is too ill to watch her niece. "Aren't you, love?"

"Yes!" chirps Nell, enthusiastically, not sure of to what she is agreeing and not particularly fussed.

"Her hair may turn dark," Finton says, thoughtfully, brushing it back from the toddler's cheek.

"Fin," Nell says, smiling. The expression, as unexpected as it strikes him, is pure _Ivy_.

 

 

  
**~ * ~**

Between the willow-bark tea and the laudanum, Kitty has finally fallen asleep. Her morning sickness lasts late into the afternoon, and she is pale and fragile, but Victor assures her that the child is healthy and that her difficulties, too, will pass. In the meantime, there is only bed-rest and faintness. Victor also says, well out of Kitty's hearing, that the grief of Jamison's death is to blame and that they all must be patient.

They had not met under the best of circumstances, the four of them, and only three of them had walked away with their lives. Once all of their tempers had cooled—at least momentarily—they had come to the uneasy agreement that calling it an unfortunate accident would be best for all parties involved. It didn't prevent suspicion and pain from flourishing in the days following their return, but it had prevented Kitty from going mad and, in time, permitted her to love again. She is not as beautiful as her younger sister, but she is more breathtaking in all the most cherished of ways.

Stroking her hand, Kevin stares out the open window and dreams of his child: a life for a life, the new world to come.


End file.
